


Paradise by the Dashboard Light

by JaiMaree



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Don't Touch Lola (Agents of SHIELD), Established Relationship, M/M, Revenge Sex, Sort of? - Freeform, snipers in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaiMaree/pseuds/JaiMaree
Summary: Clint understands Fury’s directive, the need for a secret task force, for a way to rebuild SHIELD from the ground up. But Coulson taking time to bring his precious fucking car on board, when he couldn’t spare a moment for his old team? That’s bullshit.There’s a beat of silence, and then Bucky grins. “Wanna despoil your ex-handler’s car?” And Clint… Yeah. Clint kind of does.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 86





	Paradise by the Dashboard Light

Here’s the thing. Clint doesn’t want to be That Guy and say he’s still pissed at Coulson. But. He’s still pissed at Coulson.

It’s been four whole months since the whole ‘Surprise! I’m not dead!’ reveal, and Clint… Clint’s not over it. Nat says he’s an idiot but screw Nat. She just doesn’t understand.

See, Clint hasn’t had a lot of great mentor figures in his life. Even Barney, his actual big brother, the one person he looked up to as a kid and who helped protect Clint from their dad’s drunken rages, eventually turned on him. So, when Coulson came along with his calm voice and gentle smile, he was a long-awaited safe port in the shitstorm of bad stuff and even worse choices that had been Clint’s life until that point.

And now Coulson’s invited the Avengers along to meet his _new_ family, the one he ditched them for, on this swanky new ride of his he calls the bus and… Clint is a little miffed, so sue him.

He’s down in the plane’s cargo hold, trying to get away from the bright-eyed young recruits that Coulson adopted, all playing nice with Steve, Natasha, and the others. He just—needs a breather, is all. Then he spots Lola. And somehow, that hurts more than anything.

From a logical point of view, he understands Fury’s directive, the need for a secret task force, for a way to rebuild SHIELD from the ground up. He _gets_ starting fresh, hell, he’s done it enough times himself. He forgives Coulson for his new baby ducklings. He even forgives Coulson for bringing in May, for trusting her instead of them. Melinda and Phil go way back, before Strike Team Delta, before Phil-and-Clint-and-Natasha.

But taking time to bring his _precious fucking car_ on board, when he couldn’t spare a moment for his old team? That’s _bullshit_.

Clint feels an irrational surge of hatred for the innocent red paint, for the gleaming chrome, for the pristine black leather. His fingers itch to smash, to scratch, to damage. It’s stupid, and childish, but hey! Clint never said he was the mature one on the team. The fact that his wardrobe is 90% old pairs of jeans and faded graphic tees is a huge neon sign that supports this point. He stares at the hole in the side of his purple Converse sneakers and sighs. Who is he kidding? He isn’t going to touch Lola. He’s going to be nice and go back upstairs instead. He’ll smile at the ducklings and pretend like his former handler and sort-of-father-figure didn’t stomp the metaphoric hell out of Clint’s heart.

“Nice car.”

Clint, deep in his own thoughts, jumps a mile. He turns and finds Bucky there, watching him a little warily, as if unsure of his welcome. Clint’s heart—the one that was just aching for the past—beats a little faster. This thing between them is pretty new; still raw, but real. It’s not just sex, hot and heavy and more than a little desperate, but something more, something that grows each day, shy and tremulous as a flower bud in spring. It’s soft kisses when no one is looking, hands held under the table, away from prying eyes. It’s silent confessions in the dead of the night, as they hold each other after a nightmare, finding comfort in the understanding of having been there, been _that_.

Clint clears his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s Coulson’s. He calls it Lola.”

Bucky glides forward to stand beside him, the easy grace making Clint’s breath catch as it always does. His body is a line of welcome warmth in the gloom of the cargo bay. One hand finds the back of Clint’s neck, solid and anchoring. The other—the metal one—reaches out to lightly touch the shiny paintwork. “Well, hello Lola,” he growls, his voice low and predatory. Clint shivers.

Clint half-turns to find his boyfriend’s eyes upon him, calculating and all too shrewd. “Bad memories?” Bucky asks.

“Not exactly,” Clint answers, shaking his head. “It just sucks that he brought Lola along—” _and not me_ , he doesn’t say, but Bucky seems to get it anyway.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Bucky grins. It’s that dangerous smirk of his, the smoldering one that must have levelled entire blocks of pre-war girls and boys back in old-timey Brooklyn. Bucky leans closer, his lips tickling the edge of Clint’s ear in the best sort of way. “Wanna despoil your ex-handler’s car?”

And Clint… Yeah. Clint kind of _does_.

Bucky hops over the side of the convertible, fluid and sexy, settling in like some leather-jacketed 1960s bad boy. He pats the passenger seat, quirks an eyebrow. “Coming?”

Clint laughs. “Why do you get to drive?” But he rounds the car anyway, opens the door, climbs in. He’s never actually been in Lola, only seen her from the outside. He runs his hands over the door, the butter-soft leather seat, the dash. He only has a moment to appreciate the car, though, because soon Bucky’s reeling him in for a kiss, a vast and scorching thing all tongue and teeth and pure unadulterated _want_. He grins against Clint’s lips and pulls away.

“You ever do this as a teenager? Like in the movies?” Bucky asks, mischief dancing in his eyes and edges of his smile.

“I didn’t exactly have a normal childhood, remember?” Clint thinks for a moment. Most of his circus-day hookups were under a caravan, or behind the bleachers in the Big Top. He lost his virginity beneath a tarp-covered hot dog stand, down on dry dirt with the smell of stale bread and ketchup in the air. Romantic, it was most certainly _not_. The sort of making out in classic cars that you see on TV was not a thing that circus brats like him got to do.

“Well, then, sweetheart. Here’s your chance.” Bucky switches on the radio and the slightly manic twang of a guitar and a piano fill the plane’s hold. Clint recognizes the opening immediately and cracks up.

“This is _perfect_ , Buck. Have you heard this one?” He sets the song to loop on repeat. “It’s called _Paradise by the Dashboard Light_. It’s a Meat Loaf classic, about a couple of teens making out in a car.” His chuckles fade at the look in Bucky’s eyes and he gulps, swallowing the last of his laughter. Heat burns like a lava flow all the way from his head to the tips of his toes, and he flushes under that dark gaze. Now it’s his turn to tug Bucky over, laying into him like a man starved for it.

It _is_ perfect, is the thing. Not because of Lola, or the song gaining traction on the radio. But because it’s _Bucky_ , with his gorgeous face and the rippling muscles that flex under Clint’s roving hands. His blue eyes flutter shut, but Clint could describe every fleck and tint in them, could spend hours detailing every line and mark on his boyfriend’s body. He’s memorized it all. They haven’t said the words yet, haven’t confessed _I love yous_ to each other. But Clint is sure they’re getting there. He knows how he feels, and is pretty sure that Bucky feels exactly the same.

Bucky’s vibranium arm glints in the artificial lighting just as Meat Loaf sings, “glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife”, and he’s beautiful. He’s everything that Clint has ever wanted, everything he figured he would never have. Clint moves back, just a fraction, breaking the kiss so he can see his boyfriend better. And then he hauls Bucky up and over the center console and into his lap.

It’s a tight fit, and the angle is a little awkward at first, but then Bucky tilts forward a little and things get good, fast. Clint moans at how fucking perfect it is. He’s taller than Bucky by quite a lot, but like this he’s the one being covered, protected, and the heat of Bucky’s body along with the tortuous slow grind of his hips is a sweet antidote to the hurt that Clint’s been feeling. It all seeps away: the anger, the betrayal, the petty envy about the new recruits and the stupid car. Until all that’s left is him and Bucky, and the sting of teeth and stubble grazing his jawline.

Bucky laughs, shoulders shaking. “Is that… Is he talking about _baseball_?!”

Clint hides his face in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, murmurs into his sweat-damp skin, “It’s an _analogy_ you heathen.”

Bucky bites at his earlobe in retaliation and Clint hisses in a mixture of pain and delight. “We’re not scoring any home runs in this dinky toy car,” Bucky says as his hand fumbles at the button on Clint’s jeans. “But I can sure make a play for third base.”

It’s Clint’s turn to laugh, but it chokes off into a muttered curse as metal fingers find skin, sliding firm yet gentle around his cock. “Fuck, _oh_. Do that again. Yeah. _Right there_.”

Bucky takes a moment to adjust the rhythm, Clint wrapping his own hand around the two of them to help. On the radio, Ellen Foley is belting out, “Will you love me forever?”, the perfect counterpart to Meat Loaf’s throaty purr, and Clint wants to scream _yes, of course, forever and always_. His free hand grips Bucky’s arm so hard he’s sure to leave bruises, but he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll fly right out into the night sky, lose himself in the song and the void and never find himself again.

The music rises, dips, rises again like waves on a beach, crashing over Clint and drowning him in _here_ and _now_ and in all that is James Fucking Buchanan Barnes. Bucky’s desperate, writhing on Clint’s lap like a wet dream, and Clint never imagined, never thought, never—

The song climbs as high as it can possibly go and then freefalls, tumbling, plummeting to the ground, dragging Clint with it. He shouts as he comes, spilling hot and wet over his and Bucky’s fingers, and when Bucky follows it no longer feels like falling, but soaring, and Clint swears for an instant he can see all the stars and the planets and the goddamn sun itself.

Bucky curls into him, panting hard, and Clint is shaking all over like this is his first time ever. And in a way, it is. He laughs, but it’s a tremulous thing, and when Bucky draws away and wipes a careful hand across his cheek, he realizes he’s crying.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Thank _you_ , sweetheart,” Bucky answers, kissing his cheek, his nose, his forehead.

They sit there a while, just breathing into each other’s skin, until Bucky rolls his shoulders. “Okay, so I love you, but this is fucking uncomfortable.” It isn’t until he’s out of the car that Clint realizes what he said.

“You… What?”

Bucky’s busy tucking himself away and zipping up his pants, so he doesn’t see whatever ridiculously vulnerable look must be on Clint’s face. “The car. Cute ride, but _really_ uncomfortable place to do _that_.”

“No. Before that. You love me?”

“Obviously.” And oh, Bucky looks defensive. _Oh no_. Clint _hates_ that expression, the one that makes Bucky look like a kicked puppy. A really grumpy yet adorable puppy.

“Buck, wait!” Clint tries to get out of his seat in a hurry while doing up his pants, and of course he trips and falls just as Coulson walks in. He gets to his knees, but he’s a mess; his pants are thankfully zipped but still unbuttoned, his shirt is crooked, and he’s pretty sure he has a huge hickey blooming purple on his neck. The car door is open and— Well. It’s pretty clear that they’ve been having sex in Lola.

“ _Clint!_ ” Coulson stops, palms his face, frowns. “Really, Clint?”

Clint’s just thankful that Phil hasn’t pulled the Director card, that’s he’s opted to go casual on this one. “Uh. Sorry?”

Coulson sighs. “No, you’re not. You’re mad at me, right? Look, I apologize for not bringing you in on this sooner, I really am. I wanted to. It’s the truth. I'm really, _really_ sorry, Clint.”

Phil looks tired and a little sad, and all of a sudden the fight goes out of Clint. “I’m sorry, too.” He’s surprised to see he means it this time. He straightens up, looks Coulson in the eyes. “Not for Lola—she deserved it; she knows what she did! I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you. I…don’t take rejection very well, you know that.”

“It wasn’t rejection. After everything, Clint, after Buenos Aires, after Tokyo, after _Budapest._ How could you think it was rejection? You didn’t need me anymore. You never really did, Clint, you’re stronger than you think.”

And it burns, but in a good way; more the warm glow of embers on a hearth than the wildfire that has been raging inside of Clint since he’s found out Phil was alive. “I’ll always need you, sir.” His voice cracks on the words. “You’re _family_. I don’t have a lot of family, and I’m not looking to lose the ones I have.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Coulson says. “Not entirely, anyway. I’ll be back. I’ll be in touch. I won’t do that this time. I promise.”

Clint sniffles, and when did he start crying again? “I know,” he tells his ex-handler, his big brother, his sometime-father-figure. Coulson pulls him in for a hug and Clint goes with it, melting into the embrace and getting snot all over Phil’s nice suit. When they’re done hugging, he feels… Not fixed, not completely. But better. Like something was shattered and now all that’s left are cracks, slow-healing but clearly on the mend.

Coulson steps back. “I’m going to leave you boys to it. Make sure you clean Lola up.” He points a finger at Bucky, eyes narrowed. “And Barnes, you’d better be good to Barton.”

There’s a resounding silence in his wake, only disturbed by the patter of Phil’s departing footsteps. Then Bucky rounds on Clint, mouth gaping, incredulous. “Did that just happen? Did we just make out in a car like a couple of teens and get _caught by your dad_? And did the director of SHIELD really give me the short version of the shovel talk?”

Clint hides his face in his hands, shaking with sudden hysterical laughter. “Oh god, yes, I think so.” He sobers, remembers what they were talking about before the interruption. On the radio, _Paradise_ is finishing its third or fourth rendition, the last notes of the song dying in the air. “Bucky. Buck, you know I love you too, right? I love you so much, I could die from it.”

“Please don’t die,” says Bucky, his voice small and quiet. His eyes, though, are full of wonder.

Clint takes a step forward, finds Bucky’s hand, interlinks their fingers. He feels a little fragile right now, and a lot brittle, as if all the emotions of the past minutes have taken him apart and are not quite done putting him together again. “I love you,” he repeats, a little more firmly.

Bucky smiles and they soar, hand in hand, higher than the clouds and the moon, higher than the distant stars. And Clint knows in his heart that if one of them falls, the other will be there to catch him. Because paradise? It’s right there, in a dim and dusty cargo hold. It’s wherever the two of them are, together. And it’s perfect.


End file.
